Quote

Dandelion wine. The words were summer on the tongue. The wine was summer caught and stoppered...sealed away for opening on a January day with snow falling fast and the sun unseen for weeks.

Ray Bradbury

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Ray Bradbury
Age: 91 †
Born: 1920
Born: August 22
Died: 2012
Died: June 6
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Prosaist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Waukegan
Illinois
Ray Douglas Bradbury
Words
Opening
Dandelion
Fall
Tongue
Dandelions
Away
Fast
Sealed
Caught
January
Wine
Unseen
Summer
Weeks
Sun
Falling
Week
Snow

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I'm not trying to PREDICT the future. I'm just trying to PREVENT it.
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Why live? Life was its own answer. Life was the propagation of more life and the living of as good a life as possible.
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So while our art cannot, as we wish it could, save us from wars, privation, envy, greed, old age, or death, it can revitalize us amidst it all.
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The books leapt and danced like roasted birds, their wings ablaze with red and yellow feathers.
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Can't you recognize the human in the inhuman?
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It was a great place to write a novel about book burning, in the library basement.
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I wake up in the morning and I lie in bed, and it's the time I call the theater of morning. All these thoughts run around in my head, between my ears when I'm waking up. It's not a dream state, but it's not completely awake either. So all these metaphors run around and then I pick one and I get out of bed and I do it. I'm very lucky.
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It was in their friendship they just wanted to run forever, shadow and shadow.
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Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean.
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Memory is an illusion, nothing more. It is a fire that needs constant tending.
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Heaven is a house with porch lights.
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Those who don't build must burn.
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I am madness maddened when it comes to books, writers, and the great granary silos where their wits are stored.
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Reality and Fiction are different in that fiction has to make sense.
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Way out in the country tonight he could smell the pumpkins ripening toward the knife and the triangle eye and the singeing candle.
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Why is it, he said, one time, at the subway entrance, I feel I've known you so many years? Because I like you, she said, and I don't want anything from you.
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Lone at night, when I was twelve years old, I looked at the planet Mars and I said, 'Take me home!' And the planet Mars took me home, and I never came back. So I've written every day in the last 75 years. I've never stopped writing.
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But you can't make people listen. They have to come round in their own time, wondering what happened and why the world blew up around them. It can't last.
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